


The Secret of Reichenbach

by bellaaanovak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Kissing, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Lives, i use the word absolutely a lot, is there a cross for british and american dialect because that's what this is, sorry about the possible overuse of 'bloody'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaaanovak/pseuds/bellaaanovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a stiff to everyone besides John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret of Reichenbach

Sherlock always told him he didn’t think enough. Frankly, John has been thinking far too much, lately.

 

He counts every step of every person around him. He likes to think he does, anyways. He makes note of every person smiling, crying, or laughing on any given day. He pays attention; he knows that’s what Sherlock would do. He didn’t leave the flat much, either, not at first. Not since. Now, though, nearly six months later, he goes out every chance he can.

 

The flat is awfully boring without Sherlock there.

 

Mrs. Hudson gives him the absolute best treatment possible. On the bad days, he might forget to complete simple tasks such as checking the mail or taking the garbage out. On the worst days, he sleeps too much, and forgets to buy groceries or eat. Often, Mrs. Hudson surprises him with a newly filled refrigerator and freshly done laundry. John appreciates it, he does, but most times he wishes to be alone if he were at the flat, considering it can’t possibly be any other way. He hates being alone in general.

 

John wishes he could see him _his best friend his flat mate his partner his friend_ as often as he’d like, but unfortunately, that is not a very large possibility.

 

He only sees him twice a week. Sometimes, three times, if he’s lucky.

 

***

 

“John.” Sherlock’s monotone voice drove him mad, and John hasn’t decided if it were the good mad or the bad mad. If there were such a thing as _good_ mad, he would be for Sherlock.

“Sherlock, when are you going to stop this? It’s been _six months_. Everyone but me thinks you’re a dead man!” John was getting angry, and he hasn’t been here five minutes. This happened often, but he never left. He could be sitting or standing there with _him_ in that empty mattress-occupied house in the middle of nowhere for the whole two hours Sherlock allowed him, and not say anything, and he would never even think to leave early.

 

Every minute he got with him was precious.

 

“I told you – soon. Be patient, John.” Sherlock said calmly and walked towards the single mattress. It was quite pathetic, really. The house was practically a cabin in the center of the woods and kept a mattress, a can opener, a wooden chair, two blankets, and an obnoxiously handsome consulting detective inhabiting it. John brought him groceries twice a week – three times, if Sherlock was extra needy – and he only ever asked for canned food and water bottles. Things that could be kept stored for a few days without rotting. John didn’t mind.

 

What he _did_ mind was keeping it a secret from everyone he knew. Everyone Sherlock knew. Their friends – or his friends, rather – should know he was okay. Sherlock wouldn’t admit to them being his friends, even though he damn well knew they were.

 

Why else would he throw himself off a bloody building?

 

Luckily, John received the entirety of the story, and to say the least, he was distraught. Sherlock made him promise to keep it a secret for as long as he needed. That was six months ago and John sobbed for an hour and forty-seven minutes.

 

“I’m tired of being patient. I – I _hate_ not having you at the flat. It’s boring and lonely, and Mrs. Hudson is so obviously upset about it she’s completely overcompensating by spoiling herself and me. Molly won’t stop fucking phoning to see if I’m alright, and I have to tell her I am just to make her feel better.”

“Although you’re lying.”

“Of _course_ I’m lying! I’m not anywhere near alright, you blithering – God,” John ran his hands up his face and through his hair. It was getting ridiculously longer along with his facial hair, but Sherlock made sure he kept up personal hygiene. Sherlock turned to him and before John could realize it, the detective was unbearably past the line of personal space and right in his breathing room staring at the floor. “Sherlock…” He said cautiously. He didn’t know if he was going to start yelling or deducting the creak in the floorboard or the stain on his jumper.

 

Frankly, John would prefer the yelling.

 

“John. Do you want to know why I’m doing this?” John opened his mouth immediately but Sherlock cut him off with a sharp glance upwards. They were eye to eye, now. “Don’t raise your voice, it’s distracting.” Oh, God, he’s going to begin.

 

After five minutes of silence and breathing each other’s air, Sherlock finally spoke, and he didn’t start analyzing the part in John’s hair. “I miss my work. I do.”

“So go back to it. Come… Come _home,_ Sherlock.” John’s voice cracked. He didn’t mean to say that.

“I am home.” John tilted his head and almost took a step back, but forced himself not to.

“Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t your home, this place – you’ve been here six months and the floorboards creak.”

“Do they? I thought that was just me, good.” John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was bloody insane. “No, John, you’re missing the point. Let. Me. _Finish_. I am home, I am home right now, right at this very moment, do you know why?” John shook his head. He was being cryptic and it was quite annoying.

 

“I’m with you. I’m home. You’re my home; you have always been… my home.” John felt a sob in his throat but swallowed it down. “I cherish these moments with you, these completely intimate and private moments, because nobody else knows about it. Nobody can waste it. No one, not Lestrade, not Molly, not anyone knows you’re here. Knows _I’m_ here. Nobody can waste this.”

 

Sherlock was being cryptic again although he was more specific than before. John didn’t realize he was crying until Sherlock’s rough, pale hands cupped his face and emphasized the wetness on his cheeks. It was silent for another couple of minutes even though it felt like an hour, just staring into those bright, dead blue eyes and having them stare right back.

 

“Say you feel it, too, John. Fucking admit it already, please. I read it on you from the minute we met; you were looking at my mouth, my lips as I spoke.” John winced. He was not used to hearing Sherlock swear calmly. The rare times he swore were during a case or a boredom spillover at the flat.

 

And John wanted to say it. He wanted to say it so badly, but there was absolutely no correct way to put it, even though there was.

 

_I love you I love you I love you I want you You’re an idiot I need you Come back Come home Please I love you I love you_

John stopped and a half a second later, crashed his lips into his friend’s and trembled as Sherlock’s hands gripped his face tighter, one hand sliding onto the side of his neck, down his shoulder, squeezing. As if he wanted not only to remind John he was there, but to remind himself _John_ was there. And he kissed back.

 

Their lips moved together with so much ease it was quite impossible not to think either of them had been in this position with each other. But they haven’t. That’s what made it special and that’s what made it wonderfully terrifying.

 

Sherlock’s tongue found its way through the part of John’s lips and John’s followed back on the same route. His hands held Sherlock’s small waist, pulling him closer.

 

They were there for a long time. John didn’t know how long, but it was dark out, and dusk when he got there.

 

After reluctantly pulling his bruised lips from his best friend’s, John forced a smile and couldn’t help but embrace the heat on his tear-stained cheeks.

 

“I do hope that covers it.” Sherlock laughed darkly, but lightly, and it was all so blissful. The laugh was like music to the doctor’s ears. He disregarded not being able to see him for three more days, and he disregarded his shaking, possibly purple lips, and just breathed.

“Believe me, John. It does.”

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you've enjoyed this. I'm American, born and raised, although I do my best to make both the narration and Sherlock and John's dialect sound British/Londoner/etc. This is the first ever Sherlock fic I've written, considering I've only just entered the fandom a couple of weeks ago! Be gracious. Feedback is always welcome! x


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